Fake lights don't do much for you, bounce of your angles.
Sharp, defined and I don't like it one bit.
You're better off in muted sunlight streaming through old blinds
half covered in shadows,
etched and blended into backgrounds.
Sitting, unsure of which way the wind is blowing (nothing to follow),
you wring your wrists like you're nursing phantom wounds, the ghost of premature arthritis jests the fragile bones.
I see indecision in your eyes, in the last place it should be.
Your desperation comes in the form of midnight walks
around back country roads,
places much too dangerous for the likes of you.
Looking for late-night fluorescence, Morning Stars that instead bloom in moonlight,
you lay in bare fields and provoke tears from memories.
I'll cover you like satin and bleed comfort through your pores.
Paper kisses pepper you with bits of silence
only to be broken when you again part your lips
(my pleasure to reseal them).
Whispers of things you never would have held tighter if you would have known,
forever isn't as long as it used to be.
When the feeling of ephemeral minutes lay heavy truths on your heart,
it's hard to enjoy the quite hours, the silent stars.
You've been victim to cruelty so much more often than you have been to compassion,
a viciousness that stays in the back of your throat, unable to be coughed out,
still unable to be swallowed.
You leave your haunting unfulfilled, wet with morning dew.
My efforts waste as you walk away, and I know its not your fault.
There are things you can't just throw out. They are ethereal
yet encumber you with the heaviest of weights –
grow inside you and block off anything and everything
that could make you better.